Promise Me (The Me Novellas) Read online

  “Guilty.” He grinned. “I’ve been up and down Baja. Know every surfing spot there is.”

  He looked like a surfer. Tan and lean, a spattering of freckles on the bridge of a perpetually sunburned nose.

  “Spent quite a bit of time down by Puerto Vallarta. Sayulita has good breaks. Funky little town about an hour south.”

  I was next in line. “I didn’t have a car while I was there.”

  “Must have been kinda hard to get around without wheels. So, what kind of cultural exchange program were you there for? Something with school?”

  “No. Just a program where you could live with locals. Experience life.”

  “Cool.” From the tone of his voice, he sounded like he really meant it. “Did you live by the bay?”

  “No. La Estancia. In the mountains.”

  He raised his eyebrows. “A village?”

  I nodded. The cashier motioned to me.

  “Guess it’s my turn. Good luck with your classes,” I said.

  He watched me, nodding, a puzzled expression on his face. “Yeah. Thanks.”

  I paid for my books and waited while the cashier, a girl about my age with inky black hair and a pierced eyebrow, handed me the charge slip to sign.

  I left the building, looping the bag over my forearm. It hung like a ball and chain, weighing down both my mood and my spirits. I fished my phone out of my purse and checked the time. It was ten after one and I was late for my beach date with Grant. I sighed and texted him as I walked.

  On my way.

  “Emma?”

  I turned to look behind me. Dex jogged across the sidewalk, his two bags of books tucked under his arm like an oversized football.

  I waited for him to catch up. Maybe he had another question about one of the instructors. The classes.

  He stopped a few feet from me, his chest heaving a little. “Hey. I wanted to ask you about that program you did.”

  His question caught me off guard. I didn’t know what kind of information a surfer-turned-student would be looking for about my time in Mexico. “What about it?”

  He brushed at his hair with his free hand. “You said it was a cultural thing. Did you exchange houses with someone?”

  I almost laughed at the image that flashed through my mind. My parents would have been like fish out of water if they’d gone to Puerto Vallarta. And Rosa and her family? I swallowed. They would’ve thought they’d moved to paradise.

  “No, nothing like that,” I said. “I just went and lived with a family for the summer.”

  “In La Estancia?”

  I nodded.

  He stared at me. “Pretty sure I’ve been through there. It’s a tiny place, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “And you stayed there?” he asked doubtfully.

  I knew what he was thinking. Why would a girl like me choose to go live in a Mexican village? A tiny Mexican village like La Estancia? But he didn’t know the half of it.

  “They didn’t actually live in La Estancia,” I amended. He started to say something but I continued. “They were about a half mile away. In the jungle.”

  Dex cocked his head, his eyebrows raised. “I don’t think I’m following. What kind of exchange program did you do?”

  My phone dinged. I knew it was Grant, texting me back. I didn’t look at it.

  “Well, it was a satellite program of this organization. People Helping People?”

  His eyes lit up with recognition. “Oh, they do good work.”

  “You’ve heard of them?”

  He nodded. “Yeah. Definitely. They have a pretty strong presence in Mexico. They helped build a school. Cabo, I think it was. A bunch of us pitched in for a few days. Helped out.”

  “Cool.” I liked hearing that he knew about them, that he’d actually spent time volunteering with them. I didn’t know why, but I did. “They run the program. It’s an opportunity for people like us to experience what life is like for some of the poorest of the poor. The people open their homes and receive a small stipend, which helps them out, too. It’s a pretty cool program.”

  “I didn’t know they did that.” He thought for a minute, his eyes on me. “I’d love to hear more.”

  I raised my eyebrows. “You would?”

  “Yeah.” He smiled. “And I swear, this isn’t some contrived pick-up or anything.” He dropped his bags to the ground and dug around in the pocket of his shorts. He produced a card. “Honest. Give me a call or text me when you have some free time. So we can talk.”

  I took the card, my brow furrowed. Why the hell was he giving me a business card? He probably sold melaleuca or something. I stuffed it in my purse without looking at it. “Uh, OK.”

  He stooped down and picked up his bags. “I won’t bite. Promise.”

  SEVEN

  I got to the beach at two o’clock. Traffic hadn’t been bad, but street parking at the beach was practically nonexistent. We were meeting at the end of Pacific Beach Drive and the tiny parking lot was crammed with cars and minivans, many with Arizona plates. I was ready for summer to be done and for the bulk of the vacationers to go home. I circled the lot for a few minutes before finally giving up and heading away from the beach. Twenty minutes later, I was parked and walking the four blocks back to the shore, my beach bag slung over my shoulder, a half-empty bottle of Diet Coke in my hand.

  The shore was littered with blankets and umbrellas and I scanned the entire length of the beach, searching for Grant. I finally spotted him close to the water, sprawled out on a towel, his eyes closed.

  I trudged toward him. “Hey.”

  He opened his eyes and shielded them with his hand. “About time.”

  “I told you,” I said, spreading my towel next to his. “Mesa was crazy. And parking was a nightmare. Remind me again why we didn’t just meet in Mission?” At least I could have parked behind his apartment and walked to the boardwalk.

  He shrugged. “Wanted a change of scenery.” He reached for the water bottle next to him and carefully unscrewed the cap. “You get everything squared away?”

  I pulled my dress—a blue one, this time—over my head. I was grateful bathing suits were made of lycra. Despite my weight loss, my black bikini still clung to my body. Sort of.

  Grant let out a low whistle. “Em. You look hot.”

  “What?”

  He took a long drink and smiled. “I didn’t really get a chance to look at you yesterday…”

  I knew what he meant. We’d both been too eager to notice much of anything.

  I glanced down at my body. “I look like a skeleton.”

  He shook his head, his eyes roving over my emaciated body. “Nah. Hot.”

  His statement irritated me. I reached into my bag and pulled out a bottle of sunscreen. I sat down on my towel. “So I wasn’t hot before? When I was twenty pounds heavier and oh, I don’t know, healthy??”

  “Not what I was saying.”

  “Well, having dysentery can really make you lose weight.”

  He sat up a little. “What?”

  I rolled my eyes. “Oh my God.”

  He shot me a disgusted look. “You know I don’t like it when you joke about that shit.”

  I wiped the extra lotion on my towel. “Don’t I know it.”

  “What is up with you?” he asked.

  “Nothing,” I said.

  I knew I wasn’t being fair. He’d tried to give me a compliment and I’d flung it back in his face. Maybe I needed to just leave society and become a hermit or something. My day had been a stellar indication that I was having a hard time tolerating people. Or at least being nice to them. First the counselor, then Dex and then my own boyfriend.

  “Doesn’t seem like nothing,” he commented. He picked up a handful of sand and let it trickle between his fingers. “You’re different, Em.”

  I shook my head. He had no idea. I was different in more ways than he knew, in more ways than I could even figure out how to describe. I wanted to tell him, to try to explain all the
thoughts running rampant in my head, but I didn’t know how. I wasn’t sure I could explain them to myself. But I owed it to him to at least try.

  “Look, it’s going to take me a little while to get readjusted,” I said. “I just came back from living in a shack. Not having any money, barely having enough food. There’s a bit of an adjustment period.”

  He nodded. “OK. I get that. I’m sorry.”

  “And having you tell me that poverty looks hot?” He started to protest but I held up my hand. “I know, not the words you used. But that’s how I got this way.” I motioned to my body. “It just rubs the wrong way.”

  “I’m sorry,” he said again.

  “It’s fine.” I buried my toes in the sand, digging them in. “Let’s just forget it, OK?”

  “Done.”

  As if to demonstrate, he reached over and squeezed my thigh. I looked down at his tan hand and bit back a sigh. His touch always got to me. Always.

  We sat in silence for a bit, watching the surfers bob up and down in the water, past the breakers. The waves were choppy but it didn’t prevent the diehards from heading out and hoping. Absentmindedly, I wondered if Dex, the guy I’d talked to at Mesa, would be out there that afternoon. Waiting. Hoping.

  I shifted my gaze back to Grant. I didn’t need to be thinking about him.

  “I need to find a job,” I said abruptly.

  “A job?”

  “Yeah. To pay back my parents for the trip.”

  “Can’t you just work at the restaurant?” Grant knew all the positions I’d worked there over the years. He’d bussed tables for a while, too, until he’d found his latest gig working the front desk at The Catamaran Hotel.

  “Yeah, but I don’t want to.”

  “Why not? It’s a sure thing. You could start tomorrow.”

  “I just want to do something different.” I glanced over at him. “Anything open at the Catamaran?”

  He frowned. “Not that I know of. Why?”

  I shrugged. “I dunno. I just thought it might be cool to work together. You know, since I was gone all summer and school’s starting back up. You have a full load this semester, right?”

  He nodded. Grant was at UCSD, studying Engineering. He’d spent the first two years doing his GE work but this year would be different. Classes would be harder, more intense. We both knew it.

  “I can check, I guess,” he said. “Maybe there’s something at Moray’s.” Moray’s Lounge was a restaurant at the resort. “A hostess position or something.”

  But his voice was hesitant, as if he didn’t really want to do that at all.

  “That’s alright,” I said. “I’m not sure I want to do restaurants any more. I’ll find something.”

  “You sure?”

  I nodded. “Yeah, I’m sure.”

  I really was. Despite the fact that it sounded like he didn’t want me anywhere near his place of employment, I was pretty sure I didn’t want to be there, either. The thought of working in a restaurant, of working at a resort, of working in any service-related job, was depressing. It felt so unfulfilling, so inconsequential. I thought about bussing tables or taking orders or selling swim suits or shoes. And shuddered.

  Maybe he knew that. Maybe he was just looking out for me, trying to point me away from something that he knew I would find unfulfilling.

  I wasn’t sure if I was right, but I let myself believe it.

  Because the alternative was something I wasn’t prepared to think about.

  EIGHT

  My phone rang early the next morning. I was still in bed, contemplating getting up. I was warm and cozy and my bed felt like heaven.

  It was Grant.

  “Hey,” I said, my voice sleepy.

  “You’re still in bed?”

  I pulled the covers tighter. “Uh-huh.”

  He sighed. “Wish I was there with you.”

  “Me, too.”

  We’d grabbed dinner after spending a couple of hours at the beach and then went back to his place. Pizza from Filippi’s and two beers later, I’d collapsed into bed with him and the uncertainties of the afternoon became just a bad memory. Laying there afterward, his arms wrapped around me, his leg thrown over mine, everything had felt right, normal. I decided I’d just been paranoid at the beach. Paranoid and overwhelmed. If there was something wrong with us, with our relationship, I wouldn’t be in his bed and he wouldn’t have invited me to stay the night. We were fine. More than fine.

  “What are you doing today?” he asked.

  I’d turned down his offer to stay the night, wanting to get back home and sleep in my own bed. I also knew he’d be getting up early for work and the last thing I’d wanted to do was get up and go home at the crack of dawn.

  I yawned. “I don’t know. Probably look for a job. Shop a little.”

  “With money you don’t have?”

  I grimaced. “Pretty much. I sorta need to have clothes that actually fit.”

  “Well, if you keep eating like you did last night, you’ll be back in your old stuff in no time.”

  I’d eaten more of the pizza than he had. “Shut up.”

  He chuckled. “Alright, well, if you find yourself over this way, can you do me a favor?”

  “Aren’t you at work already?”

  “Yeah.”

  I shifted onto my side and repositioned the phone against my ear. “What?”

  There was a long pause. “Can you maybe bring me some hand sanitizer?”

  I wasn’t sure I’d heard him correctly. “What?”

  He cleared his throat. “The bottle here is empty.”

  “Grant. You work at the front desk of a hotel, not the dump.”

  “Look, there’s been an outbreak of norovirus here. Not huge, but a bunch of guests were sick overnight.” His voice held a note of irritation and I didn’t know if it was directed at me or the virus that was apparently invading his hotel.

  “Isn’t that a food-borne illness?” I asked. I couldn’t figure out why the front desk clerk of a hotel would be concerned about that kind of outbreak. But then I remembered who I was talking to.

  “Well, it’s actually transmitted through fecal matter.”

  “Are you part of the custodial staff now?”

  “Emma. People don’t always wash their hands, OK? I’m on the front line here. People checking out, dropping off keys.”

  I smothered a giggle. “Right. The front line.” I refrained from making any more sarcastic comments. “Doesn’t the gift shop sell hand sanitizer?”

  “Yeah, but they sell that crap with tricolsan. That stuff doesn’t kill anything. And it promotes bacteria resistance.”

  For the hundredth time, I thought my boyfriend had chosen the wrong field of study. He needed to be working towards a degree in Infectious Diseases. I was pretty sure he knew enough about them to educate the rest of the entire planet.

  I considered his request. Did I indulge his neuroses? Or did I just tell him to take a chill pill and deal?

  I decided to be compassionate. “Uh. Sure. I can swing by in a couple of hours, I guess.” I didn’t want to admit it but I was just as big of a mess as he was. At least his worries and fears were isolated: he feared germs. Period. My whole life felt like a festering mess of worry and indecision.

  “A couple of hours?” He couldn’t hide his disappointment.

  “Well, I need to shower and eat. And stop at the store and buy you hand sanitizer. Triclosan-free hand sanitizer,” I clarified.

  He sighed. “Alright. I guess that’s gonna have to work.”

  “I’ll try to hurry,” I promised.

  “Alright. Thanks.”

  I closed my eyes and yawned again. “You’re welcome.”

  “Oh,” he said. “One more thing.”

  “What?”

  “Where are you going to get it from?”

  “Uh, the grocery store?” I said. “Or is there a special hand sanitizer store I don’t know about?”

  “No, no,” he said, a litt
le flustered. “But if you’re heading toward the mall…”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Well, Bath & Body Works has pocket sizes. No triclosan. Warm Vanilla Sugar is my favorite.”

  This time, I couldn’t bite back the laugh that erupted. “Of course. Only the best for you.”

  We hung up and I lounged in bed for a few minutes before the guilt propelled me out of bed. He was waiting and I’d promised. And even though I couldn’t understand his phobias, had just lived in probably one of the dirtiest places on the planet—and survived—I’d told him I’d bring him what he needed.

  I took a shower, marveling once again at the feel of hot water sluicing over my body. I’d missed the food and the creature comforts of home, but more than anything, I’d missed this. Standing underneath a stream of hot water, shampoo in my hair and scented soap on my skin, I could have stood there all day.

  But I didn’t. Reluctantly, I turned the faucet off and stepped out of the tub. I toweled off and slipped into another dress, the only other one I had that would fit. It was white with a fitted bodice and an A-line skirt. With my sun-kissed hair and tanned skin, I looked fabulous. A little thin, but fabulous.

  I stopped in the kitchen on my way out, intending to grab something and go. Joel was at the table, shaking Lucky Charms into a bowl.

  “Hey.”

  He looked up. “Hey.”

  I reached for the bunch of bananas on the counter and tore one off. I sat down across from him. “How are you?” I asked.

  Joel and I had never really been close. Not because we didn’t like each other. He was fine as far as brothers went. But a five-year age difference is a big spread. The last time we’d been at the same school at the same time was when I was twelve. And he’d decided pretty early on that he wanted to surf, so even though I often took him to the beach with me, he was always out in the water with his own set of friends.

  “Good,” he said, shoveling cereal into his mouth.

  “You ready for school to start?”

  He made a face. “When am I ever ready for school to start?”

  I smiled. Given the chance, he’d live in the water. “Good point,” I said.

  “Are you glad to be home?”

  I bit off a piece of banana just as he asked and the silence hung heavy in the air. No one had asked me that and I didn’t know how to respond.